


careful what you wish for

by saturno



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Cannibalism, Delusions, Disgusting Descriptions, Gross, Guro, Lowercase, M/M, Necrophilia, Religious Content, Romance, decomposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:19:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturno/pseuds/saturno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>frank makes a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	careful what you wish for

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> _god - please - fuck - my - mind - for - good_  
> 
> 
> title is a [coil track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHIlBk5vbVI).
> 
> i like these two, they're great abandonment-issues bookends.

he's the one hanging heaviest from the human foliage in the ceiling, the densest and biggest among the ripening fruit. the most ready to be plucked. harvested. frank is standing barefoot in a room he doesn't know how he wound up in, amidst a tangle of dusty ropes and broken wood and decomposing human pieces littering a cold floor, and he looks straight up into the hanging man's face. his eyes, swarming with flies and still wide open, like he died gazing into his lover's. his soulmate's.

but that gaze is for frank now. just for him. he was waiting for frank to come along, so he could look at him with his glassy eyes like this.  
there's a metal pipe branch reaching down from the ceiling and stabbing through his abdomen, mashed pieces of muscle and punctured liver chunks sticking to the ends of the protruding shard. dripping blood like nectar. like sap. honey. wet and willing, eager, open, and frank wants him then, suddenly, overwhelmingly, like a flash flood submerging him in his own house in the dead of night. drowning him, consuming him in mind-numbing want. his free hand is out and open under the slow molasses drip of cooling blood emerging from the beautiful thing in the ceiling, painting his palm anew, brighter red over dark caked scabby residue. leftovers from old lovers. his hand is up to his face, scouring his tongue over his palm, tasting cool copper. pennies. nectar. wine. flowers and sour larvae.  
he loves him. he loves him already, overwhelmingly, passionately, and he wants him now. right now.  
the mini circular saw, he's digging it into any taught piece of rope around him that he can feel. needs him down. ropes are snapping and a body falls from the ceiling in a dead dropping smash against the floor, cracking, breaking. broken dishes. wrong one, not the one he wants. the man in the ceiling and the generation of flies coming out of his mouth and nose gaze softly at him as he works, cuts, struggles to find the right rope, the right answer to this tangled teasing puzzle. looking at him like he's calling out. 'hurry,' he's saying silently with his eyes, murmuring sweet. 'touch me.'

another snap, and another body frank doesn't want plummeting headfirst. he can hear a dull crack of its bones breaking, a crunch in its neck as it shatters, a splattering as moldering things inside of it spurt out. he's cutting faster, more frantic, the structures in the ceiling tangled so bad that half of the broken ropes don't move anything. 'want you,' he's whispering, somehow right into frank's ear from the ceiling. 'want you,' a tongue dripping with old blood and gummed with drying saliva teasing over his gnarled bottom lip. can almost see him biting it. slut. wet fucking slut. but frank wants him just as badly at he wants frank. wants to make him his own. his own full ripened fruit. all his.  
frank is hacking ahead mindlessly into the taught jungle of ropes like thick vines around him. the hanging body, can he feel frank's restlessness? his eagerness? his neediness? frank can. he can feel it pulsing in the pit of his body, stomach cramping and squirming inside of him, digested empty of all its prior loves and whimpering now, teething for more. more to fill himself with. more of his love, his love's flesh. more inside of him, gorging, cramming in until he is sick and can't move from where he collapses, guts distended amidst his shrunken skin and protruding ribs. he is full, and they can't leave him. he is sickened and spread tight to rupturing with his lover's self. his everything. in him. inside of him.

he loves him. he loves this man in the ceiling, this man with a face like a shotgun blast and crystalline eyes peering through insects sipping their remaining moisture away, eyes that frank's got himself poised right under so they're looking right at him. and he is. he _is_ looking at him. the man in the ceiling wants to be eaten, wants to melt into fluid in the acid in his stomach. wants to be alive, live again in frank's cells. live forever this way. in his head, he can hear what he thinks is the voice of the hanging man, vibrating and electric in the space between his ears, crackling in time with the visions of god behind his eyelids. christ and the holy virgin. madonna and child, singing to him. 'please,' the man in the ceiling coos and frank cuts a rope that _jolts_ his beloved fucking fruit sideways, something in his support creaking, giving. closer. his upper body sags and his eyes, still staring out straight ahead of him, are staring right into the floor.

closer. more ropes and the man's body lurches on the metal beam piercing through it and slides down. begins descending, slowly, like he's floating down from the heaven chorusing so loud in frank's skull that he can't even hear himself think. frank reaches one skeletal hand up and touches the man's face, on the side full of lesions and burrowed maggots. it's hard coral under his fingertips. stones. burned. overdone - he wants what's underneath. the softness waiting underneath. the yielding meat.

"hello," frank hears his own voice say, hoarse and gurgling and desperate with wanting and hunger and drool frothing into his filthy beard like a rabid animal. "hello," as he digs his talon nails into the collection of hardened skin on the man's face, scratches and tugs tiny chunks free from their home in the mess. the mass is alive with shimmering infant flies, burrowed in between the crevices and chewing in at whatever they can reach. the man is looking past him into space, bloated, teasing, like he's being coy, but his face is telling the truth, betraying his own secret yearning. purring and red and wanton from deep down in his broad motionless chest. frank can hear it. he can feel it vibrating through the bones in his hands against the man's face, and he cuts another rope and the whole thing suddenly comes plummeting down the last few feet, ripping free of the pipe, falling and slamming flat against the floor, out of reach of frank's prying itching fingertips. collapses in a heap at his feet, one of the man's arms outstretched on the floor in front of him as though reaching for something that would've broken his fall.  
reaching for frank.

he's dropped the circular saw, and he sinks down to his bony knees, gathering the man's huge reaching hand up in his own. there's a dirty glove in the way and frank pulls it free with his teeth, hearing it popping along its seams, tearing away, exposing. the palm underneath is calloused and white, bloodless, little nicks and cuts marring the surface red and textured.  
it's in his mouth. the skin is cold and rough against his tongue and his teeth are sinking into the base of the man's palm, digging in and chewing, chewing hard, back and forth grinding until the skin starts to give way, separating, little holes forming that rip open bigger the more he's able to get his teeth into the ragged tears he's making. he can taste blood and denser meat underneath the skin, flavorless and soft, yielding in the loose flaccidity of post-rigor death. he tastes like heaven. he loves him. he feels something like a want for crying brimming in his chest like acid reflux, like water soaking slow into his socks at home, like holy mary mother of god and her infinite, unending compassion. the man gazes off into space as he rolls him into his back, states at nothing until frank grasps his skull and lays him down in his lap and the flies shuffle, disturbed by the motion, parting in a buzzing cloud around them both, long enough for frank to look down and stare straight into the electric blue eyes staring back up at him.

'lover,' his mouth gasps up from frank's lap in a helplessly needy sigh, a noise unable to hide its thirst, its desire, its yearning for this. this union. it's echoing in frank's skull, crackling like the weak newborn flailings of maggots and the hatching of thousands and thousands of insect eggs. "lover." the hand is still in his mouth and squirming underneath his grinding teeth, skin opening, unraveling, muscle fiber strings in his teeth as he rips his head back with a noise like a dying man in the desert collapsing at an oasis, dipping his head below a pool. whining, moaning in the throes of relief. wrenching the chunk of his hand free. he tastes like god.

the red muscle mass is crushing into paste in his mouth as he sits there, wheezing, savoring slowly, agonizingly. he cannot understand how good it is. why it's so good. only that it fills an emptiness in him, in his stomach, deeper down in his core. god reaching down deeply into the center of him, fingers twining around his insides, his thoughts, his sense of self, and soothing them so sweetly he can barely breathe. lover is gazing at him like all he wants in the world is this. all he ever wanted in an entire lifetime was this.

frank would give it to him. frank wouldn't deny him this. not when they both screamed for it, when christ and god almighty screamed for it from the pits of frank's swarming brain, from the insides of the beautiful body frank's trying to barehandedly rip the clothes from, in black buzzing flocks. the vest comes apart in his dripping hands, sloppy stitching pulling loose and buttons flying in all directions, and when the shirt underneath won't come off, he's snatching the saw from the floor, digging it down into the stained fabric and pulsing it. the material is flying apart, in tatters - he drags his saw down, runs it harsh and fast over the length of the man's torso, and the blades are gunking with meat immediately as he rips straight down into the thing's chest.

he tears the shirt open and twists his fingers into the rips in the skin. opened long holes from the circular saw's sloppy bite, and a black puncture in his gut from the pipe he'd hung from, and bandages, square stained patches up and down his ribs, coming loose and uncovering deep punched holes over his lungs. there's something huge at the base of his ribs, a solid mass of runny blackened gauze and medical tape and feeding maggots. he peels it back like a husk, like the flaky edges of a cocoon, and there's an enormous loosely stitched hole in his chest, like something had punctured in and coiled itself around his insides. a hole leading up under his ribcage, and he understand then - into his heart. a tunnel to his heart, and frank is wheezing, whimpering, his own heart hammering wildly at the realization.  
'do it,' the thing on the floor breathes into the pits of frank's brain. 'do it,' he's swarming around him, landing on frank's skin and crawling, dipping his tongues into the blood caking the cuts on frank's chest. frank can feel the man encircling him, enveloping frank's body in a roaring swarm of flies, settling back in on the exposed parts of the man's body.

frank's fingernails are catching on the stitches in the hole in the man's chest. picking, and prying, and peeling with both hands. he squirms one finger between the stitches and inside the opening, and he can feel the insect life inside of it pulsing hotly, hundreds of soft little bodies, hundreds of tiny hearts. one finger, and then three, and then his entire hand with the other twisting itself along the man's face, stroking like he's soothing. dipping in past shrunken lips and pressing against the inside of his cheek. stitches in the chest popping, soft meat splitting. the tunnel leads his hand in, yields and lets it slide deep, smooth and soft and damp into the dark center of his body. his fingertips stretch and reach and grasp, in past the bottom lobes of slack, deflated lungs, and then it's there, his heart against the pads of his fingers, against his nails. smooth and cool and still. silent and the pulsing of life all around it, around frank's arm, his wrist. inside him.

"yeah," the dead man drools, gurgles, staring into frank's eyes, fluttering against frank's eardrums. he's dying for this. he's leaking and dripping all over the floor for this. shameless. he can't help himself. "yeah yeah yeah, f _u_ ck."  
the heart is stuck firm and he can't get his arm in any further. he itches at it, trying to find purchase, a crevice to sink a fingernail through for a better grip, and he leans in closer over top the body, searching for another few inches he can wriggle his fist inside. it brings frank closer to the man's face, the stretched dead mouth that frank's other hand is still digging inside of. frank is opening up without realizing what he's doing and sinking his teeth into his cheek. he grips in, and he punctures, and he jerks and rips the calcified skin backwards off the man's face, stretches of red and fat coming with it as he peels it away. like an orange rind. like a husk. an exoskeleton. the meat's underneath. the meat. the meat is there, glittering wet and alive and screaming in frank's head with all its power to _please, please, PLEASE,_ and he is so hungry. he's so fucking hungry. it's peeling off slow. stretching backwards up and away from shiny white bone between his teeth and lips and tongue scouring every crevice of it the second it's in his mouth. like god.  
god. he's god. god who delivered manna to his children in the desert. god who provided and rained food down to the starving, from the frigid blackness of space, white like stars. like creamy fat. like bloodless flesh over red raw meat that frank's got his lips to, suctioning tight, sucking over the hole he's ripped in the man's face, a squealing noise out of him like praise. like benediction. like needy, needyhungry, hungry hungry hungryhungryhungry screaming frothing acid in his guts and a loneliness so biting he can feel it trying to burn straight through his stomach, burn out through his grease slicked skin, dissolving him into nothing, into sludge, into liquid. loose, and lonely, and nothing, he has to eat. he has to eat, (as he rips into the man's face with a mouthful so huge he nearly chokes as he forces it down,) he has to fill the space before he dissolves. he has to pack himself to bursting before the man leaves. before he's gone. before he's left alone again.

"mine," through mouthfuls of ripped red chunks out of his throat, dry arteries opening under his teeth, splitting lengthwise and yielding, wads of muscle tearing free as frank gorges himself stupid, gorges until it's hurting, until his body is screaming in a pain his brain can't process. more. his fingertips are digging their jagged nails into the heart, and he pulls with whatever strength he has left, trying, and trying, and trying. and trying. and trying. his heart. his soul. the man's whole self. his everything. he wants to eat it. he wants it as a part of him, this man with a face fragmenting into bitten chewed-up pieces off his skull, melting in love and frank's saliva. he bites in towards his face again and his teeth crack against the sides of the man's molars, exposed through the opened side of his face, through the ragged hanging strips of remaining flesh. he forces his lover's jaw down and stuffs his fingers in, prying the man's tongue out from the back of his throat where it's settled. sour smelling and filthy tasting until he sucks it in and crushes down on it so hard that it ruptures between his teeth into ribbons. spirals of tissue and congealed blood filling his mouth, and he's whimpering, roaring through his nose in huge snorts. " _ **o** h_h," his throat sputters, half choked. half drunk. a chunk of the heart rips free and he's yanking his arm out of the hole and stuffing the piece in his mouth immediately, swallowing before everything can make it down his esophagus. it's hurting, it's hurting, but frank needs more. more or the man's going to leave. more or lover will leave him behind. he'll abandon him. he'll float away into nothing, and frank needs him, he can't, _he needs him,_

he's crushing the circular saw in against the infested wound in his chest and widening the gap in spurts of squealing struggling blades through tissue and against bone - then fitting the entire saw in, forcing it through the hole, jamming it up under his massive ribcage, into his chest cavity, and pushes it down around where he thinks the heart is connected. he's holding it awkwardly, his fingers have slipped past the guard, the blades are cutting hard into his hand, but he can't pay attention right now. he saws ahead manually until he thinks it's gotten a grip in its tubing, its wiring, the cables keeping the heart still and holding everything together.

the man on the floor is laughing with frank's own voice, airy with vocal nodes and stains of an old smoker's cough. gushing all over the floor. the hole is squelching, overflowing, pleading for more, harder, sharper, and the voice in the man's throat sings against the creases in his brain, "mine."  
and when frank pulses the saw, he doesn't feel it slicing his fingers off at the base. clean through the bone like snapping twigs. clippers through a rose bush. stems, and life, and food. god. meat. he doesn't notice. he doesn't feel it at all.  
"mmine, minemine mine, mmmmine," he says from the floor, ropes around and under his opening body like roots spreading in all directions. the maggots are a sour, slimy stench over the man's dense insides, over the smell of fresh hot blood pouring out of frank's hand into the hole, from where three of his fingers used to be. his last two, index and thumb, they're pincering around the mash of organ and pulling it. dragging it out like a rabbit by its throat, out of its burrow and into waiting starving jaws. the man on the floor, lover, slut, meat, all he's ever wanted. all he's ever wanted was frank. was this. to be together like this. unified forever inside of him. held tight at the center of his very being. never be let go.  
he's wanted this. frank knows he wanted this. he can hear him squirming, pleading, kissing against the insides of frank's skull, the damp insides of his eyelids and singing for this.

he's shouting. screaming. through mouthfuls of pulped heart and shredded strips of cheek and dense platysma muscle. torn tongue and the cool squirting salt crush of his eye that he rips into when the meat on his face is all gone. identity, heart, and mind. love, and self. body, and soul, and blind teeming maggots like angels. through it all, he can hear himself crying out into space. flies and hanging fruit above, watching them twist in a reverent buzzing silence. seeing everything, hearing everything.  
god, omniscient, witnessing everything.


End file.
